


221B Ficlets

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Ficlet, BAMF John, Beards, Bored Sherlock, Christmas, Double Entendre, Fireworks, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fourth of July, Hair Kink, Innuendo, Jealous Sherlock, John's Hair, M/M, Military Kink, Naked Sherlock, Nature, Neck Kissing, Sexual Humor, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Sherlock's Coat, Stubble Burn, Suggestive Themes, Summer, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-02-24 13:10:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2582543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An ongoing collection of unrelated Johnlock ficlets, 221B style -- 221 words, last word starts with a "b." The amuse-bouche of fanfic. </p><p>1. Fast, Slow, and Easy:  John and Sherlock try something new together<br/>2. BAMF VD:  Valentine's Day, John and Sherlock style, with a bit of military kink<br/>3. I Barely Noticed You Were Gone:  Sherlock waits impatiently (and jealously) for John to return from work.<br/>4. Stubble: In which Sherlock and John prefer each other unshaven.<br/>5. Listen: Sherlock and John take a moment to simply stop and listen.<br/>6. A Swoop of Silver Wantonness: An Ode to John's S4 Hair<br/>7. Sizzle, Pop, Boom: John, Sherlock, and small town fireworks on a sultry Fourth of July.<br/>8. Naked-in-a-Belstaff Break: A scantily clad Sherlock surprises John at work<br/>9. The Christmas Tree</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fast, Slow, and Easy

“Easy… that’s it…” Sherlock locked his eyes on John, gauging his every move. “Gently… God, no! You're grinding -- stop, stop!”

“Sorry!” John snapped in frustration. He took a deep breath, adjusted his leg, tried again. “Better?”

“Better,” Sherlock acquiesced half-heartedly. “Keep going. You're doing fine.”

John frowned. “That's not exactly enthusiastic praise.”

“Less talking, more concentration.”

John bit his tongue, refraining from further commentary. He focused on keeping it slow and steady.

“Relax your hands,” Sherlock critiqued. “It doesn't have to be a death grip.”

“I'm trying!” John said tersely. “I haven't done this in a long time, you know.”

“I noticed.”

John glowered silently.

“Faster,” Sherlock soon commanded. “Give it some more.”

John did as instructed, felt sweat prickling down his back.

Sherlock finally allowed a faint compliment. “Not bad. Now turn around.”

“What, _now?”_

“Yes -- quickly! There. Good. Just relax. You're in control.”

John shifted, breathed out, his nerves still on edge. This was not how he had planned to spend the afternoon. Sherlock had surprised him, insistent, overriding his objections. Deep down, he knew Sherlock was right. This was long overdue.

“All right?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah,” John answered, finally hitting his stride. “It feels really good.”

Sherlock smiled. “Now, slow down and ease… in… right… there…. Perfect.” Sherlock sighed, quite satisfied.

John slumped, spent. Driving lessons were brutal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever notice how John never gets to drive in the show? So I wondered how driving lessons might go if Sherlock taught him... let the innuendo begin.


	2. BAMF VD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valentine's Day, John and Sherlock style, with a bit of military kink

“Wakey, wakey! On your feet!”

Sherlock woke with a start, heart pounding, squinting against the sudden light. John was in his room, fully dressed, shouting.

“Get ready.” John tossed him a bundle of clothes. “We’re leaving in ten.”

“What the hell--?” Sherlock turned to the clock. 5:11 a.m.

“Do it!”

Sherlock stumbled to the bathroom. When he emerged, John shoved a travel mug of coffee into his hands.

“Let’s go.” John headed down the stairs. Sherlock followed, confused but intrigued. They climbed into a black car. 

“Where--” 

“You’ll see.”

They drove to a sleek office building, took the lift to the roof where a helicopter waited. 

Twenty minutes later, they landed in a field surrounded by razor wire. Industrial-looking buildings dotted the perimeter. Soldiers cradling machine guns watched them impassively, German Shepherds standing alert on their leashes.

A young soldier jogged over and saluted. “This way, Sir.”

Sherlock felt a hot flush creep up his neck. They entered a long, dimly lit building. The lights were thrown on, illuminating the vast space.

A firing range.

“I’m going to teach you some things today.” John held out the butt end of a handgun. 

The semi-automatic was pleasantly cool and heavy in Sherlock’s hand. The guns, the soldiers, John’s orders -- he was getting hard. 

John smiled knowingly. “Happy Valentine’s Day, baby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I offer this as an antidote to sugary Valentine's fluff. I like the boys being BAMF-y. ;)


	3. I Barely Noticed You Were Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock waits impatiently (and jealously) for John to return from work. (And he's not a very convincing liar.)

Sherlock tugged his lower lip, staring out the window at the people below. Everybody rushing about, going to lunch, having a smoke, completing errands before returning to their dull jobs selling insurance or running shops or, in John’s case, touching people.

It repelled Sherlock, imagining the surgery, treating piles and sewing sutures and examining wailing babies. The dead were much quieter, and much more interesting.

But there were no interesting cases at the moment, which made him restless. Sherlock glanced at his watch. John was still at work.

He picked up his violin, plucked out a few notes, set it back down. Not in the mood. He turned to the bookcase, scanned the titles. _Our Solar System._ John’s idea of a hilarious Christmas present. Still unread.

John. What was he doing? Listening to a young woman’s heart, moving his stethoscope down her chest? Shining a light into a man’s green eyes? Asking a woman to lie back, relax? Instructing a fit 20-year-old to cough, his hand expertly cupping the man’s testicles?

People. With bodies. With John in a small exam room. Sherlock felt an irrational stab of jealousy, possessiveness -- a key scraped in the lock downstairs. Sherlock grabbed a random magazine, threw himself onto the sofa.

John entered the room, smiled at him. “Hey.”

“Oh,” Sherlock yawned, feigning nonchalance, “you’re back.”


	4. Stubble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock and John prefer each other unshaven.

"Ow, Sherlock..." John shifted underneath the lanky frame stretched lazily on top of him. “Stubble," he reminded him, a bristly cheek rasping past his own.

"I'm not the one who forgot to pack the shaving kit, am I?" Sherlock asked, dipping his head again to kiss John's throat.

John smiled. He actually found the three-day scruff on Sherlock incredibly sexy, the dark etching above his lip and along his cheeks and jawline eliciting certain primal urges. And apparently, Sherlock found the sandy shadowing across his own face alluring as well, for they’d fallen into bed right after a breakfast of hot tea and toast and simmering I-want-to-shag-you-now glances across the table.

They really should be out investigating the murder they'd driven halfway across the country for. They were in a tiny village in a tiny room rented from a half-deaf landlady, but the bed was large, covered with soft quilts and pillows. There was probably a razor to be had somewhere within 30 miles, but after three days, it seemed pointless. 

Their mouths and cheeks were pink from the burn of rough kisses, neck and shoulders reddened from contact. Sherlock smoothed his fingers across John's jaw, then let them play over the coarse stubble. 

His eyes locked with John’s as he straddled him. "I want to feel it everywhere, your beard."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it just me, or does anyone else have a thing for scruff on these two?


	5. Listen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John take a moment to simply stop and listen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Something quick and light in appreciation of simple things even when world events are ugly.)

“Why are we stopping?” John had been dozing with his head against the window of the hired Land Rover, catching up on sleep after a late night. They were in the middle of nowhere, drowsy afternoon sun slanting across fields lined with neat rows of flowering fruit trees. Apples, probably.

Sherlock pulled to the side of the road, shut off the engine, and stepped out of the car without a word. John sighed, watching him skip easily down the slope of the ditch and saunter toward the trees.

John unbuckled and followed, shoving his hands into his coat pockets as he walked toward  
Sherlock, who was staring intently at a tree limb.

John stood next to Sherlock. “What are we doing?”

Sherlock held up a hand, lifted his index finger. “Listening.”

John heard the whisper of the breeze in the branches, the whoosh of a car passing on the road behind them.

“Do you hear it?” Sherlock asked.

John was starting to feel a bit foolish. “Maybe…?”

Sherlock stretched out his arm, pointed at the flowers. “Look.”

John peered closer at the riot of pink and white blossoms.

“Look closer.”

John lifted up on his toes. He finally saw the busy flit and bustle, flashes of black and yellow, heard the hum. He smiled.

“Aren’t they marvelous?” Sherlock breathed softly. “Bees.”


	6. A Swoop of Silver Wantonness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a new hair style, and it is good.  
> (An ode to John's season 4 hair.)

“John, your hair…”

“Hmm?” John glances up from the morning paper.

“Your – your hair,” Sherlock stammers from across the breakfast table. “It’s all…” Sherlock can’t find the right word so he makes a waving motion with his hand.

John shrugs, a bit embarrassed. He had it trimmed yesterday, styled. “Yeah. I thought I’d try something different.”

Sherlock stares at him like an apparition, and John shifts uncomfortably.

“I don’t know, I might change it again,” John says, hunching back into the newspaper.

“No.”

John blinks at the sharpness in Sherlock’s voice.

“Don’t change it,” Sherlock orders.

“So, you like it?” John asks tentatively, lowering the paper again.

“I do,” Sherlock leans in a bit. “It suits you.”

A smile plays over John’s mouth. “You think so?”

Sherlock nods. “This is much better than the mustache.” So much better, he thinks. This majestic sweep of hair is making his stomach flit with butterflies, his fingers itch to bury themselves in it. He wants to nuzzle that wave, tug it, ravish it.

Their eyes lock over eggs and toast crumbs.

“It was just a whim.” John’s pulse quickens.

Pupils dilate.

Sherlock’s curls gleam in a shaft of sunlight. Ringlets of sin.

John’s hair is lit like an angel’s wings. A swoop of silver wantonness.

Fingers coil, lips brush. “I like whims,” Sherlock breathes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to write this. I'm sure you understand.


	7. Sizzle, Pop, Boom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, Sherlock, and small town fireworks on a sultry Fourth of July.

“Fireworks,” Sherlock grumbles. “Ridiculous.”

“Might as well make the best of it,” John says. “C’mon, it could be fun.”

“Fun?” Sherlock counters sarcastically. “As much fun as that atrocious parade with tractors and the Cattle Queen?”

“You chose the case,” John reminds him. “Wasn’t my idea to fly to the middle of U.S.-fucking-nowhere on the Fourth of July.”

“It was a missing rabbit…” Sherlock mutters, then capitulates. “Fine. Fireworks.”

They drive to a park and find a grassy slope under an oak tree. John spreads out a blanket and produces a bag filled with sandwiches, crisps, and several bottles of beer.

They eat, watching the sunlight fade. Cicadas drone and fireflies appear above the dewy grass, lazily blinking out their luminescent signals of seduction.

They stretch out alongside each other, gazing up through the leaves at the now dark sky.

_Sssssssssss Pop!_

They both sit up, catching the trails of a giant sparkling bloom filling the horizon. They watch silently, shimmering stars, streaks, and blossoms hissing and shrieking and sizzling in hot reds, electric blues, sulfurous greens, incandescent whites.

Their shoulders nudge closer, knees touching, fingers brushing. John tilts his head up slightly, Sherlock slowly lowers his mouth.

Intense bursts of light, a cacophony of reverberations in their chests, their eyes drift shut, their lips meet.

_Boom. Boom._


	8. Naked-in-a-Belstaff Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A scantily clad Sherlock surprises John at work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really needed to write something light and fluffy. Thanks to one-thousand-leaves for the idea!

John yawned and rubbed his face, checked his watch. 11:13 p.m. He was catching up on patient files at the clinic, a task he never particularly enjoyed.

It was dark, the desk lamp the only light in the room, the building deserted. When the door slowly creaked opened, he stiffened, prepared for an intruder.

A silhouette of high collar and sharp cheekbones emerged, and John sighed in relief.

“You're here late,” Sherlock said from the shadows.

“Yeah, bloody paperwork.”

“Take a break.”

“I can't. I've gotta --” John paused, his eyes drawn down the sweeping outline of the Belstaff coat. He stared, surprised. “Um… you're not wearing trousers.”

Sherlock stepped closer, barefoot, smiling wickedly.

John swallowed. “Are you wearing pants…?”

Sherlock shook his head no, slowly undoing a button.

“Are you wearing… anything?”

Another head shake, another button undone.

John swiveled his chair to face Sherlock, his pulse racing, his blood heating as the last black buttons were released. His knees splayed, his cock stirring in anticipation.

The coat fell open, pale skin glowing in the light, magnificent chest and thighs and belly carved like marble.

The coat slid from Sherlock's shoulders onto the floor. John stood, reached for Sherlock's hips, pulling him closer.

“Actually, I _do_ have time for a break,” John murmured, fingers sinking into plush, bare buttocks.


	9. The Christmas Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I saw the image below around Christmastime and had to write a little Tumblr ficlet to go with it. This is not a 221b ficlet, but I needed a place to save it, so here we are. (The photo was described as "1915 London.")

John is dozing in his chair, his stockinged feet stretched out to the evening fire. A book lays open in his lap, his tea going cold. He starts awake at an odd noise – the footsteps on the stairs are halting and heavy, causing John to rattle his cup into the saucer with a flash of dread.

He hastens to the door, his mind speeding to his leather satchel – scalpel, sutures, ointments – worried that Sherlock is injured again. It would be just like him, managing to get himself shot or stabbed on Christmas Eve.

John pulls open the door, Sherlock’s name on his lips. Before he can fully understand, the heady scent of pine and a cold wave of winter air rise up to greet him, the trembling green boughs of a tree overtaking the landing as Sherlock thuds the trunk onto the floor with a grunt.

“What’s this?” John stammers, equally relieved and confused.

“A tree,” Sherlock answers simply, brushing pine needles from the shoulders of his Belstaff.

“Where on earth –” John is stunned, pleased, suddenly grinning like a fool as he reaches out to touch the green branches. “You carried this halfway across the city?”

Sherlock smiles back, his eyes warm, enjoying John’s delight.

The needles are soft in John’s fingers, not as prickly as he imagined they would be.

He looks up. “I didn’t think you cared about all this,” John says quietly. “Christmas sentiment…”

“Well, some traditions have their merit,” Sherlock admits, then glances away. “It’s not the largest tree…”

John smiles again, catching Sherlock’s eye. “It’s lovely. Perfect.”

They hold their gaze, sweet resin and wood smoke filling the air, a current stirring between them, the warm sitting room waiting, the tree to trim, brandy to sip, an eve of new possibilities.


End file.
